• Logout
  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    in the hushing dusk; any
    #1
    how to be a monster:
    1. learn the taste of dirt and pain.
    2. teach it to others till your knuckles bleed.
    3. see if that makes it easier to breathe.


     
    Every day, he grows stronger.
    There was more to him, he found, that his abilities did not stop with the fear aura, or the fact his body restores itself upon being wounded – he can possess others, wrench himself into their minds. It’s a savage, intimate thing, and he has not used it much – has not been presented with the opportunity to do so, really – but he feels it, a tiger pacing inside him.
    It feels good. Feels powerful.
     
    He has grown, no longer the gangly thing that had last come to the forest to lay eyes upon his forbearers. He’s handsome, maybe, though his features have a way of changing depending on the angle, the shift of his forelock changing him from plain to handsome to plain again.
    He’s gold, like his father (like his bearer), though this is where the resemblance stops, he has none of his father’s neediness, none of his wanting.
    (None of his kindness.)
    Lay with monsters, and monsters you shall make, perhaps – this was certainly the case, as he resembles his other father (resembles the monster) far more, at least as far as proclivities go, preferring the oily dark of fear to anything else.
     
    It’s been several years since Cringe has last come to the forest, but today, he feels compelled to revisit. It is much as he remembers it, though his feet walk a much surer path this time, shadows coiling dapples across his golden body. He holds the fear aura in, holds the possession in, and looks, by all accounts, quite plain, quite unremarkable.
     

    cringe

    Reply
    #2

    feels like December knows me well

    Plain, and unremarkable - the words are pleasantries compared to how he is made to feel.

    A few months old, barely a boy (as illustrated by the softness of his features, like kisses strewn across the length of his shadow-dark hide). Youth clings to him as dew to the morning leaf, desperate and ultimately, doomed. The dread of it all reflects clearly in the grey sheen of his eyes, two moonlit orbs in the sea of black which dominates the rest of his body. Young though he may be, his size is that of a near yearling; recessive genes of great size express themselves early in the colt, and he appears visibly cumbersome in the too-large suit.

    In all reality, the child ought not be away from his mother. He is not even weaned, though that never stops the hairless, careless woman from ghosting away in the middle of the night, or from equipping her flames to force him away from her side. He wanders this evening for just such a reason, utterly without a claim to purpose, unless that purpose were to be neglected by all who surround him. It's not as if he could ever be in control of that; fate and the tools with which to wield her elude him.

    A sound nearby catches his attention, and he swings his too-large head atop his too-small neck, long legs splayed nervously as his eyes flick to and fro. His fear is somewhat camouflaged by the aura he projects across his already black hide, but if anything, it is more of a tell and less of a stealth mechanism. At last, the boy's silverline eyes settle upon the gold stallion not far off, and, figuring it is too late now to run, the boy approaches.

    He maintains the aura as he treads, clinging to the one thing that would not abandon him.

    "Hello," he said quietly. "I'm Arctyrus."

    Arct
    yrus
    Reply
    #3
    how to be a monster:
    1. learn the taste of dirt and pain.
    2. teach it to others till your knuckles bleed.
    3. see if that makes it easier to breathe.


    He sees the thing – the child – the boy – a swirl of darkness with bright eyes. He squints, trying to make out more of him, but his features are plunged in unnatural shadow. Curious.
    He can taste his own aura in his mouth, like pennies, like blood, and he wonders what it is the boy fears, what would appear should he press further, curl tendrils of fear into his mind. He does not, though. He has learned, somewhere along the line, that it does well to hide talents that can remain hidden, to appear plain.
    (You’re baiting them, his father had said, and his voice had been mired in disgust, but Cringe had liked the word.)

    He nods to the boy, cornsilk mane shifting on his neck. He smiles, as if he is the kind and welcoming sort, and steps just a little closer.
    “Hello, Arctyrus,” he says, “my name is Cringe.”
    There is so much that could be done, and he aches to do it. But patience is a virtue, or so he’s heard, so he keeps himself at bay, still tasting copper on his tongue.
    “The shadows…” he murmurs, appraising the wealth of darkness collected by the boy, “they follow you. Quite interesting.”

    cringe



    @[Arctyrus] sorry for taking a million years
    Reply




    Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)